When the Earth Moves Read online

  He pulled himself out of the deepest, soundest sleep he could remember, unable to fathom where he could be that would include the sound of women laughing.

  He blinked and looked around. Thick, carved mahogany bedposts blocked his view.

  He was in Jo's room. He flattened his palm against the empty pillow next to him, a thud of disappointment hitting his stomach.

  Who was she talking to? He squinted into the light morning lightnot the lamp he'd left onand peered at the clock on her nightstand. Seven o 'clock ?

  He swore under his breath.

  Running a hand through his hair and over his unshaven face, he weighed his options. The only one that made sense was to wait for her to come back up here.

  Had she ever been here? The bed was rumpled, all over. Evidence that two people had slept in it. Had he held her all night and slept right through it?

  Damn every single time zone.

  He started to throw off the covers, then stopped. Regardless of who was with her, she probably wouldn't want him to come stumbling into the kitchen like he'd had his way with her.

  Even if he hadn't.

  He could have sworn he heard her voice call, "Bye!" just as a door slammed downstairs.

  Pulling himself up, he made it to the window in one stride. He shoved back the lacy drapes in time to see the rear of her big-ass truck roll past the fence and out of sight.

  A dish clanged in the kitchen sink and the baby called out "Jojojojojojo!"

  Who the hell was down there?

  Curiosity beat good manners as he brushed his teeth in the upstairs bathroom, pulled on the pants and T-shirt he'd left hanging on the back of the door, and headed for the kitchen, not at all sure what he'd find.

  "Ah, hello," he said to the back of a woman who stood at the sink.

  She whirled around, training eyes the same color as Jo's directly on him. For a long moment she just stared at him and he took in her features. She was around sixty, but her skin glowed with the same luminescence as Jo's. Her short hair was a mix of white and dark red, her face lined, but finely chiseled.

  One good look left him no doubt this was Jo's mother.

  "She said you looked like a movie star."

  He blinked. "She did?" He couldn't imagine Jo using the expression about anyone, even the man who'd slept next to her all night.

  "Well, she said you would . When you grew up." Wiping her hands on a towel, the woman walked toward him. "I'm Alice Tremaine."

  When he grew up ?

  Oh. Oh . Of course. His mother. "So I guess you already know who I am."

  "Cameron. The serious one."

  He felt the air escaping his chest in a long, agonizing sigh. Did he want to know this? Would it make him feel better, or worse? He shook her hand quickly, then pulled away.

  "Where's Jo?" he asked, purposely walking to Cal-lie's playpen. He reached down with a grin and gave her his index finger to tug. "Hey, kid. How'd ya sleep?"

  He felt Alice's piercing gaze follow him. "She went to work. I was planning on taking Callie to my house. I usually have her for a few days each week, so Jo can catch up. But now we're not sure if I should take her. She said to leave it up to you."

  He imagined the house without a baby. A house with no interruptions. "Don't change your plans on my account. I'll be here for a while."

  How had Jo explained to her mother that he'd spent the night upstairs? Obviously, it wasn't an issue. She looked hard at him, but she hadn't whipped out a handgun and demanded he many her daughter.

  "She said if any of her sons ever wanted to find her, it would be you." She again. Mom .

  He raked his hand through his hair. Did he really want to hear this?

  She took a step closer, her gaze judgmental. A petite woman, she had to look way up at him. But that didn't seem to intimidate her. "She never could believe that you wouldn't give her a chance to tell her side."

  He held up his hands as if he could stop her. "And I'm sorry about that. It's ancient history, Miss, Mrs"

  "Al. Everyone calls me Al. Like Jo. We have boys' names."

  He nodded. He'd call her anything not to have this conversation. "I read the letters, Al. I know what happened. I can't change history and you probably know my dad did a pretty good job of creating it."

  "Then why are you here?" Her bronze eyes held that same demand as Jo's. A look a person couldn't ignore. "I came here to meet Gallic. To see her home. To make sure she's safe and fine." If there were more underlying reasons, he sure as hell wasn't about to tell her. "You came here to find out about your mother."

  "And I have," he explained slowly. "My interest is in the well-being of my niece. Now I know she is cared for and loved, I have to figure out a way to be sure Callie can stay with Jo."

  Did he even owe this woman an explanation? Yes, he did. Because she'd befriended his mother. Because she'd taken in a pregnant woman who'd been turned out of her own home.

  "Then you're willing to go against your mother's wishes."

  He looked sharply at her. "Mywhat do you mean?"

  "Because Chris left a will. An explicit, detailed will and testament."

  "Excuse me?"

  "In it, she left everything to you." His gut knotted. "Well, I don't really want anything, so perhaps you could arrange to give whatever she left to her favorite charity."

  "You can't give Callie to charity." Callie? "I'm afraid I don't follow you."

  "Chris stipulated quite clearly that if anything ever happened to Katie, and Callie was in her care, she wanted you to raise her." At his look of sheer disbelief, she added, "She had a constant worry about Katie running off or doing something wild. She worried about Callie's welfare so much."

  For a moment he wondered if he were in the middle of his own earthquake. Surely the world shifted, and that's what made him almost lose his balance. "Even if she did, it's a moot point because they died at the same time."

  "No, they didn't," she corrected him. "Chris was taken to a hospital and died five hours after Katie. For those five hours, technically, Callie was in Chris's care."

  He tried to process the facts, thinking like a lawyer, but the man in him took over for the moment. "Why didn't Jo tell me that?"

  "She doesn't know the will exists. I'm the only person who has seen a copy of it."

  Was this a dream? Was he still upstairs in that cozy four poster bed, sleeping off jet lag and a middle-of-the-night wake-up call by a baby?

  "When were you going to tell her?" he managed to ask.

  "I'm not. The will says that I could only tell you. In person. Not over the phone and not by mail. I've been waiting for you to show up."

  "And what if I hadn't?"

  "I had no doubt you would."

  "How'd you know that?"

  She shrugged narrow shoulders. "Women's intuition. Gut feeling. Knowing your mother as well as I did."

  "But what if I had just signed the paper in New York, and never saw Jo again?"

  She reached over for a handbag that sat on a kitchen table. From it she pulled a long, thin sheet of paper with the familiar airline logo visible. "My ticket to New York." Then she took out another piece of paper, letter size, folded in threes. "And the last will and testament of Christine McGrath. Your signature on that petition is meaningless until this goes through probate."

  There went another aftershock.

  If what she said was true, then he not only had to take on Quinn and Colin but the final wishes of his mother, too.

  "Sit down, Cameron." She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. "I have a message from your mother."

  Jo gunned the truck up the last hill, anxious to get home after a morning's work. She'd turned the Toyota over to its happy owner and taken on one more job for the week. After that, she'd closed the shop and headed for home. For Cam.

  Hopefully he'd had enough sleep and agreed to let her mom take Callie for a few days. Her lips lifted in a wicked smile. Yep. He needed that long night's sleep, because she planned to make him ve
ry, very tired.

  Any doubts she had about making love to him disappeared as she'd held him in her arms all night. He slept so deeply and soundly, like a man at peace with himself. She refused to be insulted that he crashed before they'd made love. The time difference was rough, and he seemed to need sleep more than sex.

  Although when she thought of his male hardness against her most of the night, he seemed to need sex pretty badly, too. A splash of adrenaline mixed with her already-frothed-up hormones, making her slam the gas pedal and spew some dirt from her back tires.

  As she rounded the bend, her heart dropped. The white rental car was gone, and her little farmhouse lookedempty. Inside, her observations were confirmed. He was gone.

  With a sharp pain in her chest, she rushed into the back office. His bag was gone. The sofa bed was made. In a minor state of panic, she searched all over the downstairs for a note. An explanation. Even the signed petition, though she hated herself for even thinking that.

  He'd just left ?

  She stood in the middle of her kitchen trying not to let the waves of resentment and disillusionment roll over her.

  Men leave.

  Don't they?

  She glanced around and saw that the bag she'd packed for Callie was also gone, along with her toys and several bottles. Her mother had taken all of that with her.

  Had they talked first? Had her mother told him something that made him pack up and run? She tried calling Alice's number but got the machine.

  Hanging up with a disgusted grunt, she grabbed a bottle of water from the pantry, yanked on a baseball cap and sunglasses that hung by the back door and headed out to the mountain to hike.

  For a good hour she didn't think. She just moved. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, a sheen of perspiration forming over her warm skin. She watched her booted feet navigate each rock on her path up the mountain, listening only to the song of one of the gray warblers who nested in the live oak and birch trees, trying, but failing, to ignore the self-chastisement and questions in her head.

  She'd been more than ready to sleep with him. She wanted him. Like she hadn't wanted anyone or anything in years. She liked him. Respected him. Melted right into his hard male body all night and fantasized about the moment he would enter her.

  And he'd left. Maybe he'd just gone into town.

  Maybe not. Men, after all, leave. Usually after sex; but he could be different in that regard. No, they leave. Her father left. Her husband left. Women, on the other hand, stay forever.

  Unless Mother Nature steps in.

  She forced herself to climb, sucking in the pine-fresh air, and pushing her hat back to let the sunshine that dappled through the trees warm her face.

  And she wouldn't even think about the petition he'd promised to sign. The brothers he promised to fight. The lovemaking he'd promised in the car, on the counter'and in the grass. Damn him.

  And suddenly like a vision from heaven, there he was. Lying on his back in the middle of her clearing, one leg bent, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed.

  Cam.

  He hadn't left. He'd come back to her secret place. She froze like a deer sighting a hunter and stared at him, unable to speak until her pulse slowed to a normal rate.

  "What are you doing here?" she finally asked.

  If the sound of her voice startled him, he never flinched to show it. "Thinking."

  "Thinking?" All kinds of relief flooded her, and she had to force herself to walk toward him instead of run.

  She stood next to him, looking down at his long, lean body. He wore a white T-shirt with a dark green F over the pocket and the words Futura Investments underneath. Her gaze traveled over his faded jeans, and the boots he'd hiked in yesterday. There was no blanket or knapsack in sight.

  "What are you thinking about?"

  He squinted up at her. "I'm a wreck, Jo."

  She dropped to her knees. "Well, lucky you," she said softly, reaching out to smooth his tousled hair. "Wrecks are my specialty."

  He smiled and closed his eyes. "I met your mother."

  "And she wrecked you?"

  He laughed lightly. "Not intentionally."

  Somehow she understood. He'd finally come to terms with the real truth behind his mother's disappearance. All those years he'd misjudged her, hated her even. Now he had to adjust to a new history. That couldn't be easy.

  But she could help him. She could fix him. She couldlove him. Figuratively speaking. She'd start with the truth. "I thought you left."

  He leaned up on one elbow. "What?"

  "I didn't see your car or your bags and1 thought you went back to New York."

  "My bag is up in your room," he said slowly, his midnight-blue gaze studying her carefully. "Was that presumptuous of me?"

  She shook her head, absolutely hating the overdose of relief that wouldn't stop soaring through her. "No. That's fine. That's exactly where I want it."

  "I parked my car behind your garage."

  "Oh. I didn't see it." She hadn't even looked. She'd just assumed he was gone.

  He reached up to her face and caressed the line of her jaw. "Sorry I fell asleep last night."

  She loved the strength of his fingertips. "So was I."

  "You should have woken me up." He inched her face closer.

  "You were dead, honestly. I didn't have the heart."

  He regarded her for a moment. "You have plenty of heart, Jo Ellen."

  She bent toward him. "I'm so glad you didn't leave," she admitted.

  "I told you I'm yours for a week." He reached up and took off her hat. "Come here and kiss me, tomgirl."

  She needed no more encouragement.

  Their kiss was just as hungry as the night before, but he seemed different somehow. He seemed more connected to her, more tender emotion and less raw sexuality. Or was that her imagination?

  She unfolded herself onto the grass next to him, loving the aroma of her mountains that clung to his skin and clothes. Still kissing, he pulled her on top of him. and she straddled him, positioning him between her legs as a natural, easy rhythm started between their hips.

  Released from the cap, her hair fell down her shoulders, around his face. He turned into it, inhaling, his hands on her head, her back, over her buttocks. With little effort he rolled over and locked her under him, between his thighs.

  Her arms stayed around his neck, but he supported himself with one hand on the ground. With the other, he reached toward her cotton blouse. "You got all dressed up today, Jo."

  Khakis and a button-down shirt? Well, he'd never seen her in anything but jeans and T-shirts. And boxer shorts. "I had to meet with a customer."

  He unfastened the first button and she held her breath.

  "Anybody ever come up here?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "Nope. This place is all mine. I own it."

  His eyes widened. "You own it?"

  "Yep. My mountain. My stream. My trees."

  He kissed her. "My goodness ," he continued in the same beat, then made short order of the next two buttons. "You're beautiful, smart, accomplished, sexy and you own a freaking mountain."

  She laughed softly. "If only I liked baseball, I'd be perfect."

  He opened her shirt, revealing a thin silky bra that snapped in the front. "I'll teach you." He unhooked the bra with one click, widening the fabric to expose her breasts.

  "And you are perfect," he said huskily, dropping his head to suckle her.

  Flames of uncontrolled need licked through her, and she raised her hips to rub against his hard body. His mouth moved over her breasts, laving and kissing and teasing her into a place where want and pain and need and desire all banged together as hard as their bodies did. He kissed his way down her body, caressing her skin with his hot tongue.

  Easily, he removed her shirt and bra, leaving her wonderfully bare to the breeze and sun. She tugged at his shirt so he could feel the same way, pulling it over his head, then flipping it onto the grass next to them.
/>
  She called out softly as his magnificent bare chest finally touched hers. The course hairs tickled and delighted her supersensitive nipples as they rubbed each other, and their kisses turned frantic.

  "Let me," he murmured, unsnapping her pants. "Let me see you. Let me taste you."

  The thought liquified her as he slid her zipper down and slipped his hand into her panties. She could only rock against his fingers, a soft groan of pleasure and need escaping her lips. He inched her pants down past her knees, and she kicked off her boots and finished undressing. The grass tickled her thighs, so she lifted her legs and he eased his way down with more hot kisses on her stomach.

  He fingered the lace band of her panties. "What do you know? Girl underpants."

  She started to laugh, but he placed his mouth over her mound, making the sillc as wet on the outside as it was on the inside. With his hands, he spread her thighs and his tongue darted along the edge of the lace, demanding entrance, seeking a way in.

  She stabbed her fingers into his golden hair and pushed his head against her, mumbling his name and pleas to stop teasing and taste her.

  She could feel him smile, that sexy, lazy, I'm-gonna-get-you grin, and then he moved the silky material to the side, revealing her woman's flesh to him.

  He muttered her name softly, then leisurely, deliberately, he stroked her with his tongue.

  She thought she'd die. Heat and moisture and pleasure fused between her legs and she lost any control she'd ever had. Digging her hands into his hair, she lifted her hips for more.

  He slid her panties down and kissed her stomach, her hip bones, around the side.

  "Let me see your pony," he whispered, easing her to her right hip.

  Again he kissed her tattoo, tracing the design with his magical tongue.

  "Mustang Sally," lie whispered against her skin. She closed her eyes, smiling like a fool, blessing Katie for talking her into what seemed like sheer madness at the time.

  Then he worked his way around the front and used that sinful, slow, torturous tongue between her legs, darting it around her nub, then sucking her harder and faster and deeper until she heard herself gasp and call his name and shudder in his mouth.